Poetry Breakfast

My Signature Dish is Myself
A poem by R. Elliott Martin

My Signature Dish is Myself

My kitchen is a laboratory,
Pork on the range,
Stir fry on my mind,
ketchup laden meatloaf baking,
and the smell of onions,
mushrooms,
and sriracha sauce in the air,
and maybe some dates and nuts
in the food processor.

As a child I dreamed of baking bubble gum and frying jello,
and read ‘Peanut Beanut Sandwich,’
a silly kid’s poem from my favorite book.
As a youth I hungered for freedom and convenience,
found only consumerism behind the ranges,
cash registers, and dish rooms
where I gained pounds and lost time
chopping salads,
watching fish fry in fat,
And finding not the refinement or class
of hundred dollar wine and candlelit dinners
in the bag of a value meal.

At midlife, I lust to learn new skills.
Now, having moved beyond imperfection,
I google recipes for shark meat with
lemon marinade.

At my house, there’s tomato stains
on the burned out, scraped stovetop,
and my oven now takes thirty minutes to preheat up to 300 (degrees).
My own cookbook is my bible,
where devils on horseback
bring bacon-wrapped creative redemption
and I cook on sundays,
with Southern Living recipes from my moms recipe box
the lid festooned with a kid’s poem.
When I can, I spread the gospel of cholesterol to my friends,
and dream of having them around the dining room table
from my mother’s house,
at a place of my own someday.

This is how reinvention occurs,
after a lifetime of Golden Arches,
Snickers bars, coca-cola and Papa John’s.
I’m fifty pounds lighter
Fifty more and a new future is the goal.
Our dreams are what we aspire to create.
In my kitchen, my signature dish is myself.

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